


The Nightly Routine

by Watergirl14



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Name-Calling, Roleplay, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl14/pseuds/Watergirl14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bulma enjoys being part of Vegeta's nightly routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nightly Routine

Bulma frequently marveled at how comfortable they had gotten with each other over the years. Back before Trunks had been born, when she’d invited Vegeta into her home (so _graciously_ , as she still liked to remind him, and honestly, she deserved sainthood for putting up with his royal attitude those days) he’d been more likely to sleep in the gravity room than share a bed with her, even after they’d started their strange, crazy relationship. After the Cell crisis had been dealt with he was scarce, which Bulma blamed on him having to deal with the emotional turmoil of losing his teenage son. It had taken him months to get warm enough with their little family to even consider lingering for more than a few hours after a romp.

 

Now, though, Bulma sat in a towel on what had morphed from her bed to _their_ bed sometime over the better part of the decade. She sat there knowing that her husband (and even thinking that he had become her _husband_ at some point was sometimes boggling) would come strolling in within the hour, shower, shave, and brush his teeth. She’d learned quickly not to bother him during that ritual (unless sex was involved) as he got especially grouchy when interrupted. Over the years, Vegeta had become no less picky about his nightly routine, but Bulma remembered when she’d accidentally bought cinnamon toothpaste instead of mint and Vegeta had insisted on her continuing to do so.

 

Bulma leaned back against her pillows and chuckled. Vegeta had a _routine_. And she _knew_ about it. Her younger self would have never believed it.

 

Sure enough, it was only another few minutes before she heard the door to their bedroom open, and the door to the bathroom shut. She didn’t bother turning around - her parents had long since learned not to enter their wing of the building, and Trunks would have made much more noise. Bulma had grown so used to the whine of the shower right before bed that when he was off training she would run it herself or else she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Tonight was no exception - once she heard the muffled sounds of water hitting tile, her neck and shoulders relaxed almost unconsciously, her eyes closing and the tension leaving her with a sigh.

 

Sleep was just starting to wash over her when she felt the bed shift as Vegeta lay down upon it. She blinked slowly at him, his hands in their familiar spot behind his head as he leaned on his single pillow (he didn’t understand why Bulma needed three of them, saying once that having one alone was a luxury). She rolled into his chest, gently removing her towel and letting it fall off the bed onto the floor.

 

“Your inability to put soiled laundry into the hamper is revolting,” he growled without malice, his eyes shut.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Bulma shot back, poking at his bare chest. “I’d bet all of Capsule Corp that there’s hair clogging that sink.”

 

Vegeta made a content noise. They lay in warm silence for a few moments, Bulma’s ear in the crook of his arm and her fingers idly tracing over his collarbone, neck, sides, arms, wherever she could reach. Her husband’s muscles would twitch occasionally at the ticklish sensation, but he didn’t move except to curl an arm around her waist. Bulma knew that was his tell that he was falling asleep - years of mental data collection told her as much, though she didn’t dare mention it lest he get embarrassed over his cuddly tendencies.

 

She leaned up to place a kiss on his jaw, and he cracked open an eye to look at her. “Can I help you?” he grumbled.

 

“Do you ever think about us?” Bulma said before she could stop herself.

 

Vegeta gave an amused huff. “Do you ever think before you _speak_?” The huff changed to a true chuckle when she smacked him lightly on the chest.

 

“You know what I mean, you bastard.” She rolled atop him, resting her elbows on his chest and glaring. “Do you think about us, our relationship? I do, I have been all night.”

 

He hummed. The smirk got worse.  “Am I not adequate enough for you, woman?” Bulma smacked him again, with as much force as she dared to muster (she wasn't going to break a finger again just to prove a point).

 

“Prick,” she grumbled, trying to hide her own smile. It wouldn't do to encourage his ego.

 

Both of Vegeta’s eyes were open now, and he had turned to face her, that oh-so-familiar smug-bastard grin fully formed. “Is that an insult or a request?”

 

“I'm being serious!” Bulma yelled, but sadly she devolved into angry giggles - she knew she needed to be mad, but the fun of a squabble was too tempting.

 

Her husband nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. “Of course I think about us, woman.” When she looked up at him he met her stare, looking surprisingly sincere given his amusement. “You're the best challenge I've ever had the pleasure of beating.”

 

Oh, that jackass! Now he was goading her into a fight. All traces of sleepiness gone, Bulma shot up, resting her weight on his hips, crossing her arms. Her husband’s eyes scanned over her naked form appreciatively before settling back to her face. “Well bad news, mister. I have _never_ been beaten.”

 

“You will address me, woman,” he commanded, hands tracing their way up her legs, “as Vegeta, Prince of All Saiyans.”

 

Bulma sucked in a breath, half from his gall and half from the tickling of his fingertips on her thighs. “I am your _wife_!” she shouted, batting at his hands futilely. “I will call you whatever I damn well please. I'm a fucking queen!” This time she grabbed at his wrist - he humored her by letting her pull his hand away. “The only way you're royal is when you're Vegeta, King of Pains-In-My-Ass!”

 

His strong arms wrapped around her as he sat up, lifting her just so, positioning her in his lap so she could feel his growing arousal. The sensation of him hot and hard against her thighs was thrilling, even after a decade. And better (worse?), his expression had changed from prideful to predatory.

 

“I think you've got that wrong,” he purred, squeezing her, holding her gaze expertly. “I may be King, but you're just a concubine. An amusement. A _whore_.”

 

Taking a deep breath so that she could scream at him was a mistake, Bulma found, because he licked his way into a kiss and there was no hope in continuing the verbal sparring match. Instead she grabbed at his hair and yanked in halfhearted protest. His response was to dump her on her back and nibble at her collarbone, his weight a warm and heavy reminder as to who was boss.

 

Sometimes Bulma wished she were as powerful as he, so that their combative foreplay didn't always end with her at his mercy. So she could pin _him_ down for once. So they could go flying together, trade blows harmlessly, banter in the sky until they were worked into a frenzy, kisses just as forceful as the kicks, both their cries drowned out by the wind. She had to admit, though, she definitely appreciated his manhandling. It was nice to give in to his wordless demands of _you’re mine_ when all she could think was _I’m yours_.

 

“I’m not a whore,” she managed to bite out before Vegeta kissed her again, and it was only seconds before his hand had slid down her naked form to play and tease, brushing over her clit with an agonizingly soft touch. The moan that escaped her was quavering and lustful.

 

“You sound like one,” he said against her lips.

 

“P-Prick!”

 

Bulma really didn’t trust that look in his eye as he pulled back. “Ah, it _is_ a request.” He ignored her frustrated groan, briefly ground the palm of his hand into her, laughed when she bucked her hips and swore.

 

She smacked him again. It had been all of five minutes and Bulma was reconsidering her no-finger-breaking policy. She’d gone from zero to take-me-now in thirty seconds and she _really_ hated (loved?) when he held out on her. “Don’t fuck with me like that, Vegeta.”

 

Oh yeah. She _definitely_ didn't trust that look in his eye. “Well then, woman, how _should_ I fuck with you?” His fingers had gone back to the soft brushes, and she shuddered when he nibbled on her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her jaw. “Should I worship you like a queen?” That familiar thrill in Bulma’s chest was pounding now. “Or should I teach _your majesty_ a lesson? Use you like a wench? Hold you down while you shriek and fight me back?”

 

Bulma’s mind raced with the images. She was biting her knuckle, doe-eyed and innocent, as her husband slid inside her agonizingly slowly. She was clawing at his one pillow, relishing the feel of his fingers on her hips as he drove her face into the fluffy down with every impact. She was screaming and pushing at him, scratching marks into his skin, both her hands captured in one of his and the other hand holding her jaw still so he could thrust his tongue in her mouth. She was resplendent on the bed, hair slicked to her face, unable to look at him devouring her, only able to beg and plead. More and more scenes and fantasies and memories swirling around, shorting out brain circuits.

 

She looked down at her lover and it only made it worse. Vegeta was rarely so happy as he looked at that moment - the playful smile, the dangerous promise of more, the power high of defeating her in the war that was their marriage.  

 

When she didn’t respond he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, swirled the tip with his tongue too gently, perfectly in sync with the circles on her clit and equally infuriating.

 

“I hate you,” she wailed.

 

He flipped her over again, this time unceremoniously dropping her onto her stomach. “I see you’ve made your decision.” As she scrambled to look over her shoulder she caught the toothy grin, one that she’d seen frequently at the start of their relationship. “Like a wench it is, then.”

 

“What? No, Vegeta!”

 

“Too late.”

 

He barred his arm over her shoulders and used his knee to spread her legs apart, pressing her into the bed and trapping her effectively. Before she could think he had speared her with his fingers, thrusting them in and out of her with ease. The sudden intensity made her moan, spread wider for him, lose her breath.

 

“Already so wet?” he whispered in her ear, the heat of his breath making her quake. “Vulgar creature. Call a whore a whore and she mewls for you.”

 

Bulma tried to yell, out of principle, that she wasn’t a whore. She really tried. But it just came out as his name. He was stretching her, filling her, knew just how to curve his fingers and pound into her. And, fuck, she couldn’t move - between his hand and his arm and his knee she was stuck right where he wanted her. Her legs were starting to shake and she couldn’t stop the lewd sounds from falling out of her mouth. Her body was finally catching up to her state of mind and she _desperately_ needed to come.

 

“Please, Vegeta,” she keened.

 

It took hardly a second. The arm barring her to the bed was pulling her upright by the shoulders. The hand pumping into her was gone, wrapped around her mouth instead to block out the sound of her moan when he thrust himself into her body from behind. His own groan was marvelous and that thrill was back and that orgasm was just on the edge, just a little more and she was going to be gone.

 

“Do you like being silenced, woman?” he purred, voice so low it was almost more felt than heard. “Does this make you _ache_ for my cock? Hungry little whore you are...I bet you’re about to come, too…”

 

The husky whispers were too much. He was right, she was coming, coming hard, screaming through his fingers, grabbing at him wherever she could, eyes wedged shut.

 

He was still pumping as she came down from the high, though his hand had dropped from her mouth to snake around her breasts. The bastard wasn’t even tired.

 

“How dare you,” Bulma tried to say, but it just came out as a squeak and Vegeta laughed hard enough that she could feel it buzz through her, sloppily kissed the back of her neck, laughed again when she shuddered.

 

“Not having fun, wench?” He pulled out of her suddenly and Bulma whined without thinking, the sudden loss of him a true tragedy. But it wasn’t for long - he’d flipped her over (“Again?!” she yelled) and hooked her legs over his hips to ravage her once more. “Is this better?”

 

Bulma made a sputtering sound that was certainly not befitting an heiress and queen, but her arrogant prick of a husband knew _exactly_ what he was doing with missionary after so many years and he picked the exact worst (best) time to use it - to prove a point. Her unintelligible noises were cut off by yet another searing kiss. She buried her hands in his hair, wrapped her legs around him and got lost again.

 

“I asked you a question, woman,” he growled, hoarse. “Is this better?”

 

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes! Vegeta!”

 

He was picking up speed and finally, _finally_ , he’d lost his breath and was trying to catch it, himself descending into mutterings and Bulma knew that meant he was close, knew he was about to grab her around the hips again and adjust his hips just so and then he did. He was looking at her now with dark eyes that were cloudy with desire and she kissed him and locked her legs tight around him and that was it, he was groaning into her mouth and she smiled.

 

He knew better than to collapse onto her, so he rolled them over, still interlocked.

 

She kissed his chest. “I’m not a whore.”

 

Vegeta smirked. It seemed that there really was no getting him out of his good mood. “I beg to differ. You’re worth every cent you’re paid.”

 

Bulma clucked her tongue at him. “Uh-uh. You proved it yourself. No patron would spend so much time pleasing his merchandise.”

 

He’d closed his eyes, was looking quite relaxed. “I’m incredibly considerate.”

 

That made her laugh.

 

“Besides,” he continued, running a hand over the small over her back, “You seem to know quite a lot about the profession for someone who claims not to be one.”

 

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake, Vegeta--”

 

“Have I beaten you yet?” he taunted.

 

Always the mature one, Bulma grabbed one of her pillows and shoved it into his face. His muffled laughter just made her angry, so she shoved the other two pillows onto him for good measure, then stomped into the bathroom to clean herself up.

 

As she flicked on the light and turned on the shower, she noticed that there was hair on the sink. In spite of her mood, Bulma smiled.

 

All just a part of the routine.

 


End file.
